


The First Dinner

by Silky_Octopus



Series: Scenes From A Relationship [1]
Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Attempted Masturbation, F/F, Intimacy, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-24 00:29:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7486155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silky_Octopus/pseuds/Silky_Octopus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Bridget came around for dinner.</p>
<p>Timing: Soon After Episode 4x02.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Dinner

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure if this counts as a fic or a writing experiment. It started out as an experiment - I wanted to try doing something different; my writing process involves picturing a scene, often as a single image, and fleshing that image out in my head in as many ways as possible before trying to write. That led to a conversation about such images, and I decided I'd try sketching one out, so that if I ever did decide to write it up as part of a fic, I could. That then led to a conversation about how I really should explain how the protagonists got to that point.
> 
> I like the idea of leaving it just as a single image - a momentary glimpse that anyone reading can make their own minds up about what's going on, what the buildup was, what happens next... a little like trying to decipher events from a photograph. During discussions it turned out that actually, I had half an idea for a series of six or eight such images, all showing moments from Franky and Bridget's relationship from (roughly) a few minutes after the end of S3, and all with no conflict with canon at the time I was thinking about it. I don't know if I'll go that far, but I thought I would try writing up this scene as a proper scene, albeit in an odd style for me (and I'm particularly nervous about the deliberate tense change partway through).
> 
> So, if you want to just view the starting image, and make your own mind up about everything, then please do. If you want to read my preferred interpretation of what happened/what was going on, then keep reading after that. Depending how often my best friend ends up poking me with a stick, this might end up being the middle chapter of a slightly odd fic consisting of just six or eight scenes - or glimpses - but I don't know yet.
> 
> Mainly, I thought the world can always do with more Franky and Bridget moments, right?

_ The Image _

It's dark outside, and the moon is up; fat but not full, it casts a silver light inside the large room through the screens over the old sash windows. There's no air conditioning, and the apartment is little more than that single room; the floor is covered with cheap lino, and the wallpaper is serviceable, if faded and dated.

The room istelf is clean, and organized; the possessions on display are densely packed in small areas, with most of the walls bare. The small kitchen that makes up one end of the room is practically sparkling, and the cookware - the small collection of pots and pans, a single vase standing proud and filled with spoons, and spatulas, and more mysterious items - is all new, and either gleaming or matt black.

Tucked in close to one corner or the room is a free-standing cloth wardrobe, with a small selection of clothes and some stacked shoes; a single suit hangs in the largest space, while two battered pairs of boots stand proudly in front. Close to the wardrobe is a simple futon, and a jacket is slung over the back of one of the small metal chairs scattered around the round metal table; possibly misplaced from some kind of garden, there's a cloth spread over the table, hanging down unevenly around the sides, and much of the table is covered by half a dozen stacked food containers loudly proclaiming the name of a local eatery, while a couple of plates are stacked nearby, ready for the brief journey to the kitchen. Incongrously, a framed image is resting on a nest of torn brown paper close to the middle of the table, the striking shape looking almost tribal in its bold colours set against the plain white background and thin black plastic frame.

While the main light is switched off, an old overhead fan is whirling around steadily, and competing with the moonlight at the opposite end of the futon from the wardrobe is a foot-high lamp, casting a soft golden glow that starts to lose the battle within a few feet.

Sitting in the corner where the futon meets two walls is Bridget; she sits upright, right leg bent at the knee and resting against the upright portion of the futon, while her left leg stretches out until her heel rests on the floor.

Franky is sitting in the space between Bridget's legs, her back against Bridget's front, but while Bridget's eyes are open, Franky's are tightly closed; Franky is slumped a little forward, leaving her shoulders slightly lower than Bridget's, despite franky being the taller of the two. Franky's head is leaning back, supported by Bridget's shoulder, and Franky's nose is in Bridget's unbound hair, her mouth close to Bridget's.

Bridget's head is tilted forwarrd, her head resting against Franky's, and her right arm is resting across the front of Franky's shoulders, so her mouth is close to her own wrist, and Franky's head is within the triangle created by Bridget.

Bridget's left arm is laid across Franky's stomach, and Franky's left arm curls around Bridget's from underneath, her left hand resting on top of Bridget's, gripping tightly.

Franky's right leg is stretch out along the futon, resting against Bridget's, while her left leg is bent at the knee, climbing over Bridget's, her foot flat on the floor close to Bridget's knee.

The night is warm, and both are a mix of deep shadow and softly-glinting gold, sheltered by the corner but partly illuminated by the valiant efforts of the single lamp; both are nude, and droplets of sweat glimmer and shine on Bridget's arms, and on considerably more of Franky. Franky's right hand is pressed flat against her belly, fingers moving rhythmically as she is supported - or restrained - by Bridget.

\----

_ The Scene _

Franky had hidden her relief at Bridget being in her place pretty well, after they'd picked up food to celebrate belatedly the lease-signing. Franky knew Bridget's house well enough to know it was big for one person, and spacious, and tidy, and... not a cheap apartment. Not somewhere that subsidised the risk of broken tenancies for ex-cons by keeping down the maintenance bill as far as possible. Not somewhere still sporting seventies wallpaper and a plain lino floor. Not small and cheap and... Franky's.

But it was hers. Signed and paid for, based on the letter confirming that she was gainfully employed, and it was clean, and she'd starting to get her own things, and she can't afford much... and it was hers. It wasn't a cell. It wasn't big enough for her to get the boxes from her friends, and that was a conversation she wasn't ready for yet either way, so she had showed Bridget in with expansive, arm-swinging gestures about how the decorating was crap compared to her last place, and the rent was more, but the neighbours were a lot quieter and there hadn't been a stabbing in days.

And Bridget was here, where Franky had expected her to suggest going back to her place again. And perhaps Franky couldn't quite make eye contact as she deliberately kept herself busy by packing up the containers, but Bridget had noticed, as she always did, and had said that she couldn't miss a chance to see the new digs, although she didn't like wallpaper quite as much as she did in Franky's last room. She couldn't say what she wanted to say though, that she was proud of Franky for making yet another step, because there was no way Franky would have been able to hear that clearly, so instead she had started digging into the bag she'd brought with her, perhaps taking more time than might be needed.

She'd had it waiting for a while, waiting to have the nerve to give it to Franky, waiting for Franky to have somewhere to put it... worried that maybe it would mean too much, or too little, or say too much, or too little.

It had been an impulse buy, something she'd bought because it reminded her, and while Franky had been talking about her place isn't a palace but soon she was going to be a rich lawyer and buy a house bigger than Bridget's and make her a kept woman, she had felt the weight of it in her bag... disproportionately heavy, given how little it weighed, even when she wasn't touching it.

Franky had gone quiet when Bridget had given her it, quiet enough to worry Bridget that maybe it was too early, that maybe Franky wasn't ready to take something that carries meaning.

And then Franky had suddenly become boisterous, gesturing at places she could hang it, and suddenly moving around a lot, and that grin was back again, darting back and forth and occasionally shining as Franky tipped her head back and forth, and Bridget found she could breathe again.

Franky wasn't sure if it was her or Bridget who started moving them towards the futon, or maybe both of them, whether she had taken control of her space again to try and take control of her emotions, but Bridget had matched her tit-for-tat, not letting Franky just push her down and take her, but made a game of it, pushing and pulling back, pulling clothes off Franky as fast as Franky was pulling them off her.

And it had starting growing dark outside, but they hadn't want to get up and put the light on, and the futon wasn't comfortable particularly but it was firm, and it was nice being on it and ruling around and touching, because things are still both familiar and new, and neither of them was rushing.

The clothes had gone before they got to the futon, and then became now, and Franky's still not ready yet to kiss Bridget on the mouth, despite the number of times she'd pushed into Bridget's space while in Wentworth to see what Bridget did, but it's great being so close together on a futon that still smells something like the plastic it was wrapped in, and the space is small because Franky hasn't opened it out, so they're both trying to fit on one long cushion, and it's close, and warm, and whenever one of them exhaled, the warm air moved across both their skin.

And it's nice, but it's also difficult, as there's not much space to move, and Franky really wants to get her hand between Bridget's legs; Bridget keeps grinding forward and Franky keeps pushing back, and that almost makes Bridget slide off the edge of the futon, but if Franky's busy holding Bridget's back or pulling her leg forward, then she can't do what she wants to, can't slide a finger or two inside Bridget, can't work her with thumb and fingers and see her eyes dilate and move over Franky's face as she comes, and Franky wants that... wants more than that, wants to work Bridget over and over again until Bridget can't remember a time where she wasn't coming, wasn't clamping around Franky's fingers and breathing her name, and then Bridget will know that Franky liked the picture, liked her being there, liked... her.

So Bridget moves to start sitting up, but Bridget moves as well, and when Franky tries to grab for her, Bridget laughs and shifts into the corner, pulling Franky with her, and Franky's half-falling, half-kneeling between Bridget's legs, and Bridget's grinning like it's Christmas, and Franky's halfway angry, but laughing at the same time at the ridiculousness of it.

So she grabs Bridget's hands and lifts them up, pushing them against the walls and spends some time investigating Bridget's neck, making a point of nipping a couple of times to remind Bridget who's Top Dog, even if the walls that kept Franky trapped inside aren't there any longer... at least, not on the outside, and Franky's good at what she knows, and good what she does, and Bridget's neck is new and familiar at the same time.

But it's not comfortable holding that position for long, and the futon makes creaking sounds that suggest the plywood base isn't hugely robust, so Franky slides down a little, feeling Bridget's skin with her own, feeling all the curves and softness and a little sweat, because it's warm and they're close and it's delicious. So delicious that she does it again a couple of times. Well, maybe more than a couple, but Bridget's arms are moving around her neck and it's easy to slide down a little and settle, but only until her back aches a bit and the futon creaks again.

So Franky shifts again, and that leaves her sitting between Bridget's legs, leaning against her, her side pressed up against Bridget's and her legs pulled up, and it feels good to slip her left arm around Bridget's neck, even as Bridget shifts her hips a little and reaches out to palm Franky's breast, rubbing over the soft skin gently before running her hand down Franky's side and up again, and it's still warm, and Franky can't help grinning like a cat that got the cream and responds in kind; the top of Bridget's head is a bit below hers, so she can easily lean forward and remind Bridget in a low voice that everybody wants her because she's Franky.

This time it's Bridget laughing; not much, more a few soft chuckles than anything else, but it leaves their breath coiling and twisting between them, hands slowly moving, Bridget's right arm stuck behind Franky's back but in the right place to move her fingers over and around that dent at the small of Franky's back that she knows makes Franky shiver and stretch happily.

So Bridget is the first one to break the comfortable silence, when she asks if everybody wanted Franky Doyle, who did Franky Doyle want? And Franky laughs, and asks if Gidget is jealous; Bridget doesn't answer, but she does smile a little, and her hands keep moving slowly, and Franky starts to feel maybe a little guilty at evading the question... or maybe avoiding it.

So Franky doesn't like feeling guilty on a night like this, doesn't like that she isn't making Bridget laugh, and decides to deal with it by moving again, twisting so that she's leaning back against Bridget, stretching her legs out in front of her, and Bridget lifts her right knee up so Franky's leg covers her foot... and Franky likes the way it makes Bridget's hips move against her back, so she gives an appreciative little twist again, and grabs one of Bridget's hands and lifts it up to look at, holding it so that her thumbs are moving in slow mirrored patterns over Bridget's palm and fingers.

Brdget likes having Franky resting against her, likes the feel of Franky's back all along her front, and likes feeling Franky's hands holding her hand, so she slides her other arm around Franky's waist and starts idly stroking, hand gliding up and down over Franky's stomach, thumb idly stroking occasionally along the little dip where Franky's breast curves up from her chest, fingers occasionally dipping a little when she reaches the sharp valley that curves where hip and leg join enticingly, and Franky shifts a little again in appreciation of her efforts.

It's warm, and it's close, and it's comfortable... and Franky can see the detritus from dinner on the table, the dinner they bought together and brought back, and next to it all the print is still on the nested pile of paper, and Franky can't help swallowing a little, because her throat is suddenly a bit tight, and she can remember sitting with Kim like this a couple of times, and it shouldn't feel this comfortable because she's just an ex-con in a cheap apartment waiting to go back to prison.

Bridget feels something, a little shake, and she doesn't know why, but she pauses and grips Franky a little tighter around the middle, and rests her head on Franky's shoulder a bit, and just stays there, feeling Franky's fingers working over her palm, front and back. She's not sure how long it is before she speaks, but she needs to break the silence, so she asks again who Franky wanted.

And Franky breathes in and out a few times, feeling Bridget breathing against her back, and she tilts her head left a little, lets it rest against Bridget, and feels the weight there, feels the breath on her shoulder, and asks Bridget if she'd like it to have been her.

And Bridget smiles into Franky's shoulder, and starts moving her hand again, and points out that it would've been completely inappropriate, and out of order... and maybe when she's bored and lonely back in her house, she'll think about Franky pondering her.

And Franky laughs, and grips Bridget's hand between hers, and points out to Gidge that it's the first time she's heard it called pondering.

That makes the two of them chuckle more than it probably should've done, but it makes them feel lighter, and that's good, and it's nice to be there and feel close and feel each other breathing. After a while, Franky lets go of Bridget's hand, puts her hand and Gidge's on her left leg and just... stretches. Feels things moving around inside, feels her muscles tense and relax, and hears Bridget make a noise that might almost be a purr, and the two of them are chuckling again.  
Bridget lifts her right arm up; she isn't sure why, but she settles it across Franky's shoulders from the front, and feels Franky tense a little and then relax, shifting a little, and Bridget holds her a little tighter, and says that as housewarming parties go, she's had a lot worse.

And Franky murmurs her agreement, and it's quiet again for a while, just sitting there as it gets really dark and the moon finishes rising. And then Franky's talking; talking softly about how you always had to be quiet in the cells, because if you heard someone, you had to spoil their fun or everyone else thought you'd gone soft, and it's impossible to think about anything fun when you've got Booms sitting in the next cell over making helpful suggestions in a loud voice.

And Bridget's laughing at that, and Franky tells her about when Boomer heard her one night and started talking about puppies slithering around in jelly, and then started making sound effects to go with it, and Franky didn't know whether to throttle her or laugh at her, but either way didn't get anywhere fun, and as she talks, Bridget lifts her left hand up to run over Franky's stomach again, only this time she dips a little lower, fingertips drifting through soft curls, and Franky shifts more than she's comfortable with. Franky's hand is on Bridget's before Franky realised she was moving, and she wasn't sure if she was going to knock her hand away or cover it with her own, but she compromises by moving Bridget's hand onto her thigh again, and leaning back a little. Bridget doesn't say anything, but when Franky lifts her hand up, Bridget starts to move again, just drifting along the top of Franky's thigh, and then slowly along the inside.  
Franky's not sure how long Bridget just moves her hand slowly for, but she knows that she shouldn't feel nervous, and at the same time, like she wants to stretch and keep stretching. She rubs the side of her face against Bridget's a little, and then she takes a risk, and she parts her legs a little, and Bridget murmurs something approving.

But Franky isn't ready for Bridget to push things any further, so she drops her own hand to rest against Bridget's, and starts telling some rambling story about Boomer and puppies and a therapy session and she can't really remember what she was talking about, because Bridget's hand is burning just inches away and she can't stop shaking inside so hard that she thinks Bridget should be able to feel it, but Bridget's just chuckling and holding on to her shoulders and breathing against her.

After a little while, the story ends, and Franky can't think what to say, but Bridget seems to be comfortable with the silence, and Franky realises that she's running her fingers up and down Bridget's hand, feeling the channels between each finger, and Bridget hasn't moved her hand, and she's still here, and Franky's not in prison, and this is her place. This is her apartment, even with the awful paint scheme and the lack of air conditioning and the futon. So she takes a chane, and she shifts again, and this time she doesn't stop stretching until her legs are resting against Bridget's on both side, and it feels like she's wide open, and it's harder to breathe, and she can hear that Bridget's breathing is maybe just a little ragged, but she isn't moving, she's just holding Franky, and that should make Franky relax... only she can't relax, she keeps wanting to shake herself apart.

When Bridget starts to shift her hand again, Franky almost flinches, but Bridget's just moving slowly, running up and down from where it was resting, over and around the curve of her knee, back and forth, and back and forth... a slow, regular rhythm that almost feels like it's keeping time.... only then it isn't, because Bridget's hand moves further, curving under her knee, and she's lifting Franky's leg up and over her own, making Franky's knee bend sharply to settle comfortably, and if Franky thought she was exposed before, it's nothing like now.

They stay like that for a whle, and all Franky can feel is how warm the air is except where it seems cold, where she's burning, and how Bridget feels against her back, and how the arm around her shoulders feels, and Bridget just breathes and moves slowly... and then she talks. She talks about how it's obvious that Franky would've been thinking about her, because anyone else would've been easy, and Franky never does easy.

And Franky snorts, and says that's fucking too right, and Bridget's still there. And then Bridget says that it had to be her, because Franky wasn't sure if Bridget just wanted to fuck her, and puzzles stick in the mind, and Franky says that maybe she was right... and isn't it a shame that they don't have cameras in cells other than in the slot, because Bridget will never know.

Bridget nods slowly, and Franky sneaks a peek from the corner of her eye, and knows that Bridget's eyes are open, gleaming slightly in the dark. And as Bridget's there, and warm, and breathing, Franky reaches up to run her hand along the arm that's across her shoulders, back and forth, until just her fingertips are touching... and then she moves down a little, down to where she can feel the skin puckering, and she remembers doing exactly that in the dark in another time and place, needing to feel something.

And just like before, she lets her hand drift lower still, and she has to close her eyes when she hears the breath hitch in Bridget's voice, feels her finger tips start moving through hair, feels that shaking get stronger, feels Bridget's left hand moving along her skin like a pool of liquid heat. She can't look at her, can't risk her seeing her, but doesn't want to talk any more, or remember any more.

Bridget's barely aware of how still she is, how her breathing is so shallow that Franky can barely hear it, but her hand is still moving in small circles on Franky's stomach, almost as if it were an automatic reflex, and as she watches Franky's hand move slowly further down, she hears what sounds like a faint crackle and realises that it's Franky running her tongue over her lower lip, and heat is pooled low in her belly, heavy and liquid and somehow tight, and she wants to move forward, push forward against Franky, but instead she holds as still as she can, tries to ignore everything and just breathe Franky in.

Franky pauses when her fingertips are achingly close, keeping her eyes squeezed shut, and she isn't sure if she's trying to pretend that no-one else is here, or if she's pretending that she's actually *here* and everything else is imaginary, but Bridget is firm against her back, and she can't seem to swallow or catch a breath properly.

And then she moves, and her fingertip brushes over where she's most sensitive, and she'd planned to do this quickly, as if she were still back there, where everything had to be quick and quiet, but it turns out she can't because at that first stroke her hips move forward sharply and she hears a noise in the back of her throat that comes out even though her teeth are clenched, and Bridget pauses as Franky's leg suddenly moves under her touch.

Franky shifts, trying to get back to where she was, but she's still moving, and she's shaking again because all the tension she was feeling seems to be pooling between her legs, and it's not easing, and Bridget's right hand is gripping her shoulder more tightly.

Bridget hears Franky's breathing become high and fast, practically hissing between her teeth, and she feels Franky pushing back as if she's trying to avoid moving, avoid saying anything, and she can't remember when she's wanted to touch her this much, wanted to pull that cocky grin in close and see what was behind it, call that bluff, hear all her secrets.

Franky seems to find a rhythm, hips rolling slowly in time with her fingers, and she's still shaking inside her skin but Bridget is suddenly blazingly hot against her back, and she can't believe she's doing this.

Bridget's senses feel like they've all been hotwired into her brain; every inch of her body seems to be pressed up against Franky, and she can barely hear Franky over the sound of the blood in her ears, and mingled with the smell of cooling asphalt and Thai food is something else, something that's a mix of Franky's skin and her and something else, and she slips her left hand upwards, Franky's skin dragging against her palm gently, because they're both starting to get damp with sweat. She ghosts her hand up over Franky's breast, and when she hears Franky's breath hitch again, she deliberately rolls the nipple slowly between her thumb and forefinger, not pulling or pressing but just feeling, and Franky bucks hard again, swears loudly.

And suddenly Franky's hand is clawing at Bridget's, grabbing it tightly, pulling it down to lie on her stomach, trying not to think about anyone else's touch, about where she is, how exposed she is... how she's Frankie Doyle, the top dog, the big bad, lying with her legs spread wide, letting someone - anyone - watch, like she's on display.

She doesn't want to think but her mind keeps moving, and for the first time she feels trapped, locked between these arms, and her stomach's clenching, and she wants to stop, but Bridget's pressed tightly against her, and she isn't saying anything...

... And Bridget leans forward, ever so slightly, and rests her lips on Franky's shoulder, and she can't tell if it's a kiss or something else, but Franky's shaking again, and turning her head with her eyes still tightly shut, turning to where she can feel Bridget's hair against her nose, breathe nothing but that smell that she remembers from pillows and other places, that smell that's uniquely Bridget.

And she starts moving her hand again, not sure if she can stand it or not, but moving again, because she can't not. With every breath, she's reminded that Bridget is right there, but Bridget is doing her best to stay still and hold her, and Bridget is *right there*, and Franky feels safe enough to relax her eyes even though she can't open them, and starts moving more emphatically. Bridget can feel every shudder, every slight shift of Franky's hips, and it's so quiet that she can even hear the soft, liquid noises that set a faster tempo than Franky's shallow breathing.

Bridget's doing her best to keep as still as she can, but every so often she can't help shifting a little, pressing a little closer against Franky, can't stop a brief hitch in her breathing, and she feels Franky responding... sometimes Franky seems to move more urgently, hips rolling slightly at her own touch, and sometimes Franky seems to move more slowly; Bridget knows that what Franky's doing has to be hard, how careful and yet how casual she is as she carefully welcomes or avoids Bridget's touch every day, but Bridget wants to let go of herself, wants to slip one of her hands down between the two of them, echo on her own flesh what Franky's doing while Franky's pressed so tightly up against her, so tightly that it feels like there's nowhere from cheek to knee where they aren't connected. She wants to move her lips ... her mouth ... along Franky's shoulder and neck, taste the salt on her skin, feel the lobe of Franky's ear gently scrape between her teeth, wants to tell Franky that it's wonderful, and beautiful, and that she wants Franky to come for her, to feel Franky shudder and shift and fly apart inside her arms and then collapse against her, one long, shaking, juddering heap of sated and slick perfection, but she knows she can't... that Franky would never hear her, couldn't take those words, and not speaking is a torture all of its own for her.

An eternity of time spent hanging on a precipice for both of them seems to pass in the dark, hot confines of the room, long enough that Bridget's arms begin to tire even though the spirit is willing - more than willing - but it's Franky who swears, who throws a blisteringly loud "Fuck!" out into the night before twisting in frustration, maybe trying to break Bridget's hold, maybe looking to flee, and Bridget knows that something's blocking Franky; it almost feels like embarassment and something else are radiating from Franky's skin like steam, but they're both stiff, muscles trembling after being in the same pose for so long, and as Franky breaks free of her arms, Bridget is already moving, her left hand catching Franky's cheek, slowing and turning her head long enough that her other hand can settle on the back of Franky's neck and pull her close, let her swallow whatever the next angry comment was with her own mouth, hungry and demanding.

Bridget has both determination and gravity on her side, and despite Franky's initial attempts to push back and away she keeps the kiss going until they're both lost in it, breaths coming shallow and fast, Franky pulling Bridget's head up even as she kneels on the edge of the futon, and it's Bridget who breaks it off, hands still holding Franky tightly, foreheads resting together as her body shakes and desperate, deep breaths turn the world red for several seconds.

Bridget runs her thumb along Franky's cheekbone slowly as her breathing starts to calm, and then quietly asks if she can stay over. There are a thousand things she could say, and like a silver web in her mind, she can see so many connections that could break if she said the wrong thing, if she caused Franky to bolt - maybe not in the flesh, but inside, where it matters. So many things she can't say, or name... but she can ask to stay over, and maybe that won't be too much. Franky wasn't shy at staying at her place, but Franky was always going to be more comfortable getting in other people's space than acceping people into her own - whether it was a house, or something more metaphorical.

The soft noise Franky makes might be the beginning of a chuckle, but it's enough, and Franky's kissing her again, quick, darting kisses that echo what could almost be a purr. And she tells Bridget that of course her Gidget can stay over, although the bed may not be as comfy as she's used to, but the silk sheets are on back order along with the fancy china and silver cutlery.

Bridget follows Franky up as Franky stands, and moves to help spread the futon out, almost missing an instruction over levers because it's much more interesting to watch the shadows move over and around Franky's skin in soft, dancing caresses than it is to worry about mundane things like how the futon works. She's grinning when she retorts though, pointing out that she's fine without fancy silverware - and air conditioning - but she's going to need to borrow some underwear.

As they drag the sheet down over the large seat cushions and tumble into the futon - which is largely as uncomfortable as Franky promised - they're both still laughing over Franky's comment that Gidget only came over to get her hands on Franky's favourite underwear again, but the sound of laughter is soon replaced with other, softer noises in the dark.


End file.
